Brooklyn in the Summer
by worldtravellingfly
Summary: Tilda's just waiting to board a flight to visit her best friend. And now she's stuck in freaking 1939, with some guy with a metal arm. Fhl.
1. The Accident in Accidental Time Travel

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Yay another self insert!

* * *

-1-

* * *

To preface this, Tilda would like it to be known that she just wanted to go visit her best friend. She didn't have any ambitions to stir up trouble. She was just an innocent bystander.

She had been standing in line, waiting for her turn at the check-in counter, holding her bag and passport ready. (Sue her, she liked to be prepared.)

And then there had been shouting, gun shots, screaming, followed by people running into the opposite direction.

Tilda had not had time to react before someone was pushed into her back.

Automatically, she reached out to steady them, just wanting to _help_.

She blinked, and suddenly they were no longer standing in an airport. Actually, they were no longer standing at all.

Instead she found herself in a dark room, feeling something _moving_ under her. Something that was _alive_.

"Hey, you okay?" Tilda whispered, hoping the situation hadn't gone from bad to worse.

"Who are you?" Whoever was lying under her asked, voice hoarse from sleeping. Presumably.

She scrambled off of him, wondering what the hell was going on.

Then the light was turned on.

Tilda blinked.

On the bed, with the sheets pooling around his hips, sat a muscular dude with brown hair and blue eyes. Who looked just as confused as she probably did.

And in the corner, semi-hidden in the shadows, stood what looked like his older brother.

Tilda tore her eyes off of the guy back to the other one, only to repeat the process a few times. Where had she seen the older one before?

"This is very weird," she said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Younger dude's bedroom, by the looks of things.

What even was her life?

There could only be one explanation.

She pointed in the direction of older dude. "You! Don't you dare sneak out of that window! What the hell is going on? I was just about to leave on a well-earned vacation and you bumping into me has me assaulting unsuspecting people in their sleep. So, spill! What the hell was that for?"

The man was halfway out of the window, but thought better of it. For the moment.

Younger dude stared at his bearded double.

"Who the hell are you people?"

"You can call me Tilda, everyone does," Tilda said, still blushing. "Sorry for, um -"

The blue eyes softened somewhat, good humor twinkling back at her. "Assaulting me in my sleep?"

Older dude stepped in before anything more could be said.

"What's the date?"

If younger dude's voice sounded hoarse, this one's was positively raspy.

"January ten, 1939," the one in the bed replied, staring at his big brother.

There was no facial expression anywhere to be seen on the man's face.

Tilda had enough expression for both of them, however. "Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Are you sure?"

Younger dude frowned, but nodded.

"Well. Fuck me. Fuck my life."

Tilda turned to older guy. "You couldn't have chosen anywhere else?"

"Look, I didn't have a choice in this either."

Bed dude interrupted: "What are you talkin' about?"

"There was some commotion-"

"An attack."

"-and Shiny over there bumped into me -"

"Sorry."

It was grunted. Like Bearded was some sort of caveman.

"-acknowledged, acceptance pending - anyway, and then there was something I couldn't see and we ended up in your bedroom. Sorry for the disturbance?"

Younger dude blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

"Sorry, but did you say fuck?"

For a long moment, Tilda stared at him. "That's the only thing throwing you off right now?" She shot back, not exactly filtering her own words.

"He's never heard a lady curse before," Shiny told her. Possibly the man was trying to be sarcastic by pointing out the obvious.

"Sorry, but I do have a bit of a potty mouth." Tilda shrugged. "If that is enough to get your panties in a twist, I think you have bigger problems."

There was a moment of silence.

Both of the dudes stared at her as if they'd never seen anyone quite like her before.

Probably hadn't, either.

"I think we should sit down and talk," guy on the bed decided. "In the kitchen."

Bearded dude moved to the door, then held it open for her.

"Oh, _now_ you're discovering you're a gentleman?" Tilda muttered, sorely tempted to curse some more.

His eyes did - something, and his lips twitched a bit.

"After you, m'lady," he said in a perfectly posh British accent.

Rolling her eyes, Tilda went first.

The apartment was small, so the kitchen wasn't hard to miss.

She had no idea how to use the positively ancient stove though, which meant they were relegated to wait for their host.

"What's taking him so long?" Tilda asked, tapping a rhythm on the wooden tabletop.

Big brother dude tilted his head. "Getting dressed."

Oh. _Oh_.

"Oops?"

For the first time in their rather short acquaintance, the man with the metal arm smiled.

The equivalent of a belly laugh, probably.

"Oh, hush you," Tilda muttered, trying to subdue her glowing cheeks.

Before Shiny could reply, their unwitting host appeared.

He didn't say anything, but rather started to make what soon smelled like coffee.

"Okay. Let's begin by introducing ourselves," Tilda suggested, wondering how long she would otherwise have to label them older/younger dude.

Coffee loving nudist dude nodded. "I'm James Barnes, but people call me Bucky."

Tilda blinked. "How did they get Bucky out of James?"

"My middle name," he replied, adding more sugar to his coffee.

She shrugged.

Shiny stared at her in what could only be mild disbelief. "You don't know who I am?"

Tilda tilted her head, to examine him a bit closer.

It wasn't easy, in the semi-dark kitchen. They hadn't turned on any lights. Out of deference for anyone who might still be sleeping.

"No? I mean, you seem familiar, but I can't tell where from."

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"You do not exactly follow the news closely, do you?" He muttered.

Tilda rolled her eyes. "I have a very demanding job."

"A couple weeks, or days, ago, Vienna? Berlin? Leipzig?"

Oh. _Oh._

This was awkward.

" _You're_ the Winter Soldier?" She blurted out, before she could stop herself.

Bucky stared between the two of them, sipping his coffee. Potentially waiting for an explanation.

Nobody said anything for a while.

Tilda was just trying to digest the fact that she was sitting at a table with an assassin/terrorist and his relative or potential younger self, not drinking coffee.

"What the hell happened in Vienna?" The babyfaced version asked, setting down his own cup.

"Not relevant right now," Tilda decided, wondering since when she was making friends with infamous assassins.

Apparently since now.

Because she was stuck with him in the past, for the for-fucking-seeable future. If not longer.

Shiny, the elder version, rasped out: "That wasn't me, but yes."

Another bout of awkward silence.

Tilda rubbed her arm, shifting a bit in her seat. By this time, she had really wanted to be in Sweden, hugging her best friend, and giggling about ridiculous fanfiction ideas.

Instead she seemed to have been sucked into a real life fic, complete with time travel AU.

(This incident proved that there was such a thing as _too much time travel, E_.)

Bucky, the younger dude, cleared his throat. "So, who is the Winter Soldier? Never heard of'm."

Tilda examined him closely. "You're not related by any chance, are you?"

There was a sigh from the corner.

"Not that I know of," Bucky replied, taking in his counterpart. "That arm is awfully nice though."

As expected, Shiny didn't say anything to that.

From what she remembered, he had gotten it in his alleged captivity, sometime shortly before or after the end of World War Two.

Which. Thank all the deities and stars and moon for dumping them on Bucky, instead of 1939 Berlin.

That would _not_ have ended well.

"Well, my full name is Freya Mathilda Gott, but only my parents insist on that. Shiny, what's yours?"

He stared at her for a long moment.

"James Buchanan Barnes."

With every word, Bucky paled a bit more.

"How is this possible? Who are you really?" He blurted out, almost pushing over his coffee mug.

Older James sighed.

For some reason, Tilda got the feeling he'd do so often.

"You are me," he said to Younger James.

"What happened to us?"

Older James didn't reply.

Somewhere outside, the sound of people moving, beginning their day, filled the thick silence.

In movies, it would have been replaced by comically added crickets chirping.

Tilda ran a hand over her face, biting her lip. Should she say something? Do something?

Neither of the other two moved.

It was as if they held their breaths, staring at each other.

Bucky seemed to want to find something to disprove James' words. And the older dude seemed to want to catalogue all the differences in them.

Eventually, Tilda frowned, having had enough. "I read something about serving in the war, going MIA, and then surfacing seventy years later."

Younger James abandoned his coffee cup on the table.

Older James didn't contradict any of that.

Wow. Talk about awkward revelations late at night. Early in the morning?

"Alright. What are you gonna do now?" Bucky asked, also frowning. "I won't mind putting you up for a bit, my parents and sisters are visiting family in Ohio at the moment."

James and Tilda exchanged a look.

"Well," she rubbed her forehead, "I guess no one will buy that we're all related? Cousins?"

Bucky shook his head no before she even finished.

God. Time travel and now this?

What did she write for her characters to do in these situations?

Considering their circumstances - arriving in 1939, at the height of the Great Depression, with only the clothes on their back and her small bag, no valid paperwork, no job prospects - well...

Why not add a Fake/Pretend Relationship to the mix?

It usually worked out for her characters. Couldn't hurt to try it for herself. (Completely ignoring the fact that her characters developed in unexpected directions...)

"Alright then," Tilda turned back to watch James. "How do you feel about fake marrying me?"

James stared at her, completely deadpan.

Bucky's eyes went wide. "Wait, didn't you - aren't you _strangers_?"

Tilda shrugged. "So? It's not like people will let me stay with you unless I'm part of the family. Seeing as I won't be accepted as a cousin, this is my only option. Pretty sure Shiny could vanish and never be found again, but I've never -"

James pushed her cup closer. "Married."

On the other side of the table, Bucky blinked, opened his mouth, but closed it again.

"How did we meet? School? That's a bit cliché though, isn't it? Then again, people love a good high school romance..." Tilda frowned at no particular point on the wall, trying to figure out their backstory. Couldn't be harder than writing fanfiction, right?

James shrugged, apparently not comfortable sharing his opinion.

"Then again, I have a bit of an accent, don't I? So, should I be from Iowa? Or Canada?"

The two others exchanged a quick look.

"Iowa is fine," Bucky decided slowly. "Why Iowa?"

Tilda rolled her shoulders. "Lived there for a year."

Both of them blinked simultaneously - which? Creepy as fuck.

"Why in the world would you move to Iowa of all places?" Bucky asked, eyes wide.

"Exchange student. Went to high school there, as a sophomore."

Bucky stared at her.

"Okay, so. Iowa. I'm from a tiny village with like two hundred inhabitants no one has heard of and James is from the next bigger one. Lost his arm in a farming accident. You have to hide the metal, Shiny, or we'll be spotted easier than an elephant in a china shop."

In the background, Bucky muttered: "That's not how that saying goes."

James glared at him.

He shut up.

"Hey, Jay, can you get us forged paperwork? High school diplomas?"

James considered her for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Will you do so? And would you be able to sneak them into the appropriate offices? I doubt it's entirely necessary, but just in case. Knowing that there will be a draft, you'll definitely be under scrutiny. I'll try to get a job as a secretary or something, but judging from what I know, I might end up, er, in jail. Any suggestions?"

Neither of them said anything for a while.

"Alright then," Tilda nodded to herself, wondering what she could occupy herself with now.

James stood, nodded to her, then vanished out of the freaking window. Because of course he did.

Bucky rolled his shoulders. "I should loan you some clothes. That," he made a vague hand wavy gesture towards her, "is not - _What_ is that?"

Tilda frowned, wondering if she'd gotten something on her jeans or something. "What's wrong with my clothes? Other than that they're not the latest fashion around these parts?"

"You look like you're _naked_ ," Bucky protested, crossing his arms.

She glared at him. "Are you implying that I'm a whore or something?"

"Wha'? No! But it's hardly the most modest, is it?"

* * *

Tilda refused to speak to Bucky until he apologized, two hours later.

Wearing one of his mother's house dresses, because none of his sister's even _closed_ , never mind fit.

She wore the dress, not him. In case there was any confusion.

They scoured the paper together, looking for jobs, for a while, until it was time for Bucky to leave for work.

Tilda groaned, flopping on to the couch, and stared at the ceiling.

Hopefully James would return soon.

They needed to get started on fleshing out their backstory. Without an audience.


	2. Life with a Kleptomanic Cat

No Copyright Infringement Intended.

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-2-

* * *

James returned around lunch, sneaking in through the window again. Because of course he did.

Tilda probably wouldn't be surprised if that continued to be a theme.

"What are you wearing?" He asked, staring at her.

She glared at him. Oh, could she see the resemblance now!

"Your mother's clothes. Because mine are inappropriate, according to Babyfaced Bucky."

There was a beat of silence.

"It looks -"

"Ridiculous? Old fashioned? Hideous?" Tilda suggested.

James blinked.

"No, like I should go get you your own clothes. Is there anything else you require?"

Who knew the most feared assassin of their time could be kind?

Tilda sat up, sighing.

"Period typical underwear, probably. It would be awkward to explain my own stuff to Mrs. Barnes if she ever catches sight of it."

James tilted his head, but nodded regardless.

"Found a forger. Your cover name is Matilda Gott. I'm James Gott. My mother was Bucky's paternal aunt. Our parents are both deceased. Lost the farm in the Depression, moved here to find work."

Tilda nodded.

"What's your job?"

"Used to be a clerk, so hope I'll do that again. We'll see if someone hires me."

She sighed.

At least he knew how to behave in this time.

"I doubt you'll be able to work," James cautioned her. "Or if you find something, it'll be worse conditions than you can imagine."

Tilda flopped back on the couch, looking like a Victorian lady having a fit and not caring one whit about that. Considering the circumstances, she had a right to throw a fit. Or two.

"Well, shit. I'll go mad if I'm stuck at home all day. No joke."

James nodded.

"I won't be drafted. As soon as they see my missing arm, I'll be stamped 4F, and sent home."

Tilda opened one eye.

"Figured. Assuming we're stuck here for - a while, what are you planning on doing? You're exempt from fighting."

He stared at her.

She continued: "You don't have to stick around forever, either. I'll manage somehow. Seriously, I won't hold you to that fake marriage."

James sat on the old love seat. "I won't leave you stranded, doll. This is my fault."

Tilda cursed herself. Shouldn't have opened her big mouth earlier.

"I'm pretty sure it's the fault of whoever the hell was attacking you with magic. I mean. You're not to blame for this debacle."

He stared at her for a long time.

Then James threw a jewelry box at her.

She caught it, wondering which store had been broken into.

"Too bad. Already got the rings and the certificates."

Tilda grinned.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

Oh gods, it was that bad.

Every day after work, Bucky would attempt to teach her how to behave like a lady from 1939 should.

Which was hilarious, considering he was a white man. And absolutely clueless.

Thank the stars that she wouldn't get her period for at least two or three weeks. That on top of everything else would have broken her. Bucky too, possibly.

However successful the behavior lessons were, he also taught her how to use the stove, how to make coffee, laundry - which was hilarious in so many ways -, and how to style her hair.

James mostly spent his time lurking in the background, half-hidden in the shadows.

He napped for a few hours here and there, so she'd never seen him asleep. Even though, they objectively shared the couch.

'To get used to being a married couple.'

Bucky hadn't been comfortable with that, but left them be after taking one look at the expression on James' face.

Tilda hadn't asked any questions as to the origins of her new clothing, shoes, or jewelry. Sometimes, ignorance was really bliss.

However, they all fit _suspiciously_ well.

In a similar fashion, James had _organized_ suits for himself. To fit in better with the crowd.

He had been to several job interviews, wearing a glove over his metal hand.

So far, everyone had rejected him.

Tilda wondered if he'd be able to get a job as a clerk after all.

She hadn't gotten further than: "No honey, we don't hire married women."

This time period _sucked_.

And then, about a week in, Bucky announced that his family would return the following day.

"Congratulations, your first deep cover mission," James muttered while Bucky went on and on about rules and admonishments.

No one was listening, so she couldn't be sure.

"Fuck you too."

"Oh, sweetheart, you can always dream."

She poked out her tongue at him. "You wish."

Before James could retort anything, Bucky very aggressively cleared his throat.

"As I was saying-"

Tilda held up a hand. "Honey, I've met people before. I can actually hold a conversation without embarrassing myself, my ancestors as a whole, and you. Is there anything actually important we have to take into consideration?"

Bucky slowly raised a hand to his forehead.

He didn't say anything. Just rubbed the bridge of his nose.

She had not the foggiest idea why.

"No, apparently not. Wonderful," Tilda clapped her hands. "Let's pretend we are all normal for however long until Jay and I have an apartment and at least one of us has an income."

James smirked, but Bucky huffed. Then heaved a deep sigh.

"Lord, give me strength," he mumbled, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

Tilda ignored that little tantrum with the ease of someone who worked in a customer service position.

"Great."

* * *

As it turned out, the Barnes parents didn't mind so much meeting long lost family. Especially when they saw James side by side with their own son.

"Of course you'll stay with us!" Winifred declared, ignoring her youngest daughter's pout.

Tilda thanked her profusely. "Thank you so much. We'll be out of your hair as soon as possible."

That seemed to relieve the younger generation.

Winifred Barnes simply waved her off.

"Stay as long as you need. We'll be glad to have you with us."

Bucky nodded, as did his father.

The girls looked less convinced of that.

Tilda could hardly blame them, seeing as their home was being invaded by virtual strangers.

"Now then, tell me how you met, dear."

Which is how Tilda got suckered into helping to prepare dinner with the rest of the female family members.

"Well, we're from the same part of Iowa, but Jay is from one town over. We went to the same school. He's always been quiet, but with a heart of gold. Not that anyone could see beyond his arm," she rolled her eyes dramatically, accompanied by derisive noises from Winifred's direction. "So, he asked me to the school dance, very sweet. Of course I said yes. The rest is history."

Winifred cooed, winking at her out of the corner of her eyes.

Her daughters rolled their eyes.

All the while, Tilda grinned. She could learn to like this woman.

"He's not much of a talker, is he?" Becca muttered.

Tilda shrugged. "I talk enough for both of us. Jay is a bit shy, that's not a bad thing. There's a lot of men out there who like to hear themselves talk entirely too much."

Winifred laughed.

She turned to Tilda, still smiling. "You'll fit right in, dear."

With that seal of approval, the work basically did itself.

* * *

A few days later, James finally got hired. He was to work for a warehouse, clerking.

It was situated close to the Navy Yard, but whoever tried to mug him would get a bad surprise heading their way.

In the meantime, Winifred quickly noticed just how inexperienced Tilda was with household chores and happily took to mentoring her.

Becca and the littler girls tried to stay clear as much as possible, which suited both parties well.

James had to escape for solitary walks several times a day. All the noise and people probably overwhelming his senses.

Tilda sometimes wished he'd ask to let her accompany him, but then she reminded herself that he wasn't obligated to do that and definitely not if he needed peace and quiet to cope.

His napping continued.

One night, she woke up to him standing guard from the love seat. Reading a book by the light of the moon, not staring at her like a complete creeper.

On the other hand, he seemed to love his job.

Tilda had never seen someone so excited to do mathematics and paperwork. The paperwork praise songs! Holy hell, her man needed a cool hobby to balance out the dorkiness.

Jay was rapidly losing his scary assassin points whenever he rhapsodized about the Mountain of Paperwork.

She also suspected that he was spying on something or someone.

Shrugging, she supposed that blackmail never went amiss. Especially not in their rather precarious situation.

Sometimes life gave you recovering World War Two vets turned international terrorists and you had to make the best of it.

That he brought her trinkets every once in a while helped.

Tilda always thanked him sincerely and allowed him to spoil her. She never asked where they came from.

Becca did once, as the bravest of the girls, and he simply smiled.

Then said something about it being faulty, having fallen off a truck.

Strangely enough, no one else dared to ask again.

* * *

About two months after their arrival, James had saved enough money for them to move out.

"It's your birthday gift," Tilda told an exasperated Bucky.

He rolled his eyes at her. "You're incorrigible."

"And don't you forget it, genius."

James grinned at them from his favorite corner, leaning against the wall in what passed as relaxed for him.

On moving day, Bucky drummed his friends together to help them move the furniture into the apartment they'd selected together.

All of the furniture, from the bed to the couch, was pre-owned, but neither of them minded. It wasn't like the could just stroll into the closest IKEA and test the mattresses.

Most of the aforementioned friends trained in the same gym, which meant they were all rather stocky. Thicc, in modern parlance.

(None of them could hold a candle to James, which seemed to frustrate most of them. Especially when he carried a _heavy_ wooden cupboard by himself.)

Then there was Steve Rogers.

Within minutes of meeting him, Tilda tried to banish the picture of a small chihuahua snarling at the world. It didn't quite work.

But at least it explained a lot about Bucky. And why he was just rolling with things instead of panicking or throwing them out on their ears.

Steve wasn't allowed to carry anything heavy, but he still tried to pull his own weight. Despite the fact he was pretty much immediately wheezing worse than Tilda's great-aunt after running a few hundred meters. In flats. (And Auntie I had asthma.)

The rest of the group mostly left him be, only one or two teasing him about something to do with advertisements.

When Tilda asked, everyone avoided her eyes and/or blushed.

Probably not the safe for work version then, she thought, rolling her eyes. _Men._

Always the same, no matter the date on the paper.

Steve helped her sort everything into the respective cupboards and closets. There were a bunch of mismatched cups James had brought home one day. Or actual silver cutlery she was pretty sure had been liberated from someone who could afford it. Probably.

Actually, living with James was a lot like living with a kleptomaniac cat, now that she thought about it.

A kleptomaniac cat with excellent eyesight and wonderful taste.

Either way, they had enough linen, clothes, shoes, plates, etc. to get by.

Even an old couch.

Winifred showed up when everyone was enjoying their thank you beers, inspecting the apartment.

"You'll still come for Sunday dinner, won't you, dears?"

Tilda didn't have the heart to say no. "Of course, we wouldn't dare miss it."

She'd be glad to miss going to church though. Holy shit _that_ was effing awkward.

Eventually, they had their new home to themselves.

Tilda hadn't known how loud the Barnes household actually was until she was alone with the assassin who she was fake married to.

And, like in every good fanfiction with any self-respect, there was only one bed.

(In a distant part of her brain, her friends went: "And they were roommates." "OMG, they were _roommates_." God, she missed them.)

Bucky had given James intense side eye over that, but Tilda wasn't worried.

First of all, Jay still liked to spend his time lurking in corners or napping. Which really added another point in the Cat Column...

And second of all, he'd never tried _anything_. Literally, anything touch related.

If it was necessary for their cover, he always projected his movements well in advance.

Tilda appreciated it. Although she wouldn't mind a cuddle session, to be honest. Or two.

But she could respect his needs as well.

And despite everything, the way he loosened up a bit around the Barnes's, he was still a highly traumatized veteran assassin.

So, to conclude, Tilda preferred being knife-free over cuddling an unwilling ex-assassin. It was just common sense. Really.


	3. A Meltdown and a Rant

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Quick warning before you proceed: this is _fiction_ , so please keep that in mind re:views expressed in this chapter. I've done my best to research as much as I could and I hope I've done this justice.

* * *

-3-

* * *

Tilda tried to follow Winifred's advice as much as possible. There was no internet to look up recipes after all. Or how to clean something properly.

So she contended herself with mixing cheap vinegar and water, to scrub the bathroom, for example. A trick learned by her actual grandma.

And James was too gracious to mention that he'd had enough of stew for a lifetime. Or grilled cheese sandwiches. Or French toast (when they had dry bread left over), to trade off porridge for a day.

She didn't mind the gossiping ladies, or doing the laundry, shopping, and most of the chores around the apartment.

The grocery shopping at least got her out of their four walls.

Having to figure out where the best closest store was located, what they sold, for how much... It felt like planning some sort of military expedition. A mission of utmost importance.

She had to dress up to go too. Apparently it wasn't acceptable to go in your house dress. No, you had to wear a nice dress, gloves, a hat, and purse, which if possible all matched. Stockings were mandatory as well, which was ridiculous. On so many levels.

Never mind that she could hardly pin her hair down, applying red lipstick without smudging it was a whole new level of torture.

Fortunately, James was earning a good salary, and his kleptomaniac tendencies spared them some rather big expenses.

But she still worried about their financial situation.

And Tilda hadn't talked to her friends for months now.

They must be out of their minds by this point. Wondering where she was. Whether she was still alive. What she was doing that was more important than reassuring them.

Would she ever see them again?

As the months sped by, the new routine settled more and more, and Tilda began to lose hope.

There was no one they could ask, no one who'd be able to send them onwards.

She missed her chosen family like a piece of herself had gone missing.

There was no one to bitch about the finicky stove, or the old ladies surreptitiously checking her belly whenever she left through the front door of their apartment.

No one to share her success with, when she finally managed to bake a good apple pie for Sunday dinner.

James wasn't much of a talker, but he was there. Sometimes. Only, he couldn't understand why she was burning rejection letters in the stove, or why she filled notebooks with observation after anecdote.

After half a year, Tilda had applied for more jobs on this side of the time stream than the other with nothing to show for it. She'd assimilated well enough for a housewife, but she never really wanted to be one.

She had no friends, no one who knew her well.

If she vanished again, only Winifred and Bucky and James would miss her. Probably.

...there was no way back, was there?

By coming here, they'd already changed the timeline irreversibly, hadn't they?

They were trapped here, weren't they?

Tilda kicked the couch with her naked foot, hissing "Fuck!"

Tears welled up in her eyes, which she angrily wiped away with the palms of her hands.

She wanted to scream, to shout, to hit something.

Instead, she hit the ridiculous throw pillow. Beat it so much, the case burst, raining feathers everywhere.

Throwing herself on the couch, Tilda allowed herself to cry without restraint. For once in her life.

She cried until she was gasping for breath, her eyes burned, snot dripping from her nose.

Tilda was never a pretty crier. This time, she might have outdone even herself.

Even once there were no more tears, she continued to sob. She couldn't stop herself.

Oh god. She was stuck in 1940, fake married to someone who spent the majority of his life as someone else's weapon, tortured into behaving.

She was stuck, friendless, jobless, without any opportunity to return.

And even if there was, could she really bear it if her friends wouldn't recognize her? Had never known her?

When James snuck in through the window, he found her still lying on the couch, clutching the other pillow, feathers stuck in her hair and on every available surface.

It was the first time he offered her a hug.

Tilda clung to him like they were conjoined twins, sobbing into his shirt.

James experimentally patted her back, holding her until she calmed down.

Her eyelids fell shut of their own accord.

The last thing she consciously noted was being lifted and carried.

She dropped into an exhausted sleep before even touching the bed.

When Tilda woke up again, James had cleaned up the mess she'd made. The only surviving feathers were stuck in her hair, tickling her every time she moved her head a certain way.

The smell of melting cheese filled the apartment.

Her belly growled, deciding for her what to do next.

Tilda slipped into her clog-like house slippers, pulling one of James' sweaters over her dress.

It felt like being hugged by him. Warm, comforting. _Safe_.

She closed her tired eyes, and breathed in the scent of his aftershave - something unobtrusive, light. Tilda had no idea what the scent was actually supposed to incorporate, but it had somehow become one of her favorites.

There was a knock on the door frame.

"I'm as decent as I'm gonna get," she called out, voice rasping uncomfortably in her throat.

James winked at her. "Oh, I thought you were naked."

A reluctant grin spread over her face. "Charmer."

He carried a tray, which he set on the night table.

Tilda spied two plates with grilled cheese sandwiches.

"Come on," he encouraged her.

"Thought you didn't like to eat in bed?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"I'll have you know that no one's ever complained about _that_ before. Besides, there's exceptions for every rule."

Tilda snuggled back under the covers.

James slid in next to her, their shoulders touching.

"No one ever complained, huh?"

He winked at her. "Has no one told you yet? I'm a _ladykiller_."

Oh god, that was so bad it was funny again.

Tilda burst out laughing, leaning more against him, throwing her head back. Full on belly laughing.

When she calmed down, she muttered: "You're _hilarious_."

" _You_ laughed."

She grinned at him. "Touché. Thanks for cooking."

"You're welcome, doll."

There was a new softness in his eyes now.

They proceeded to eat their comfort food in companionable silence, side by side. Still touching.

It was the best dinner since January Ten, 1939 - in Tilda's opinion.

Just don't tell Winifred, dear reader.

Perhaps in response to Tilda's meltdown, James returned from work earlier.

They had a standing date to go for walks in the park on Sundays. Much better time spent than listening to a Catholic priest rage against the evils of war and what evil sinners they all were.

Neither James nor Tilda needed someone to tell them that.

They were perfectly aware, thank you very much.

James cooked for them on Sundays, breakfast and lunch.

In the afternoons, they got dressed for their weekly visit to the Barnes's, bringing cookies or cake, depending on how Tilda's experiments had gone that weekend.

This week, Bucky invited them to go dancing with him and Steve on Saturday.

"What a wonderful idea," Winifred exclaimed, to nods from her less talkative spouse.

James and Tilda exchanged a look.

"Come on, it's gonna be fun," Bucky wheedled.

With a thoughtful nod, James agreed.

Tilda poked his leg under the table, which. Not a good idea. She almost broke her finger.

This man was _built_.

Sighing, she accepted her fate. "Sure, sounds good. Where do we meet?"

Bucky shrugged. "Steve and I'll come to your place if that's alright?"

James and Tilda exchanged another look.

"Sure. Already looking forward to it," Tilda lied through her teeth.

Oh god, she was a horrible dancer. Music and her didn't mix if she was supposed to make it. Or move to it.

Chances were that she'd either be stiff as a board, make a fool of herself, or spill something.

Or all three.

Meanwhile, Bucky had a reputation for being a bit of a skirt chaser and a great dancer.

Tilda knew firsthand how graceful James could be. There was no doubt he'd be a good dancer too, memory problems or not.

(She had noticed that he wasn't sure of himself some times, even when he downplayed it. She wasn't stupid, unobservant, or distracted by outside forces. He may be good, but Tilda wasn't bad either. Also you could only check the date of the paper so often first thing in the morning.)

The rest of the dinner, they talked about the war raging in Europe and whether the US should join in.

George, who was rather reserved in most situations, vehemently declared: "They should support the Brits. This dilly dallying won't be of use to anyone."

Tilda decided she liked him a bit better than she already did.

James sought her hand under the table.

She entwined their fingers, continuing to eat or drink with one hand.

Winifred sent her an amused look, clearly well aware of what they were doing.

"War is awful and I wish it on no one, but those Nazis _must_ be stopped."

Bucky squirmed in his chair, picking up his glass to drink. He was avoiding everyone's eyes, but peaking in James's direction.

No wonder the boy was scared stiff of being sent to Europe or Africa. To fight in the war. (He didn't know about the Pacific theater, which was somehow even worse in some aspects than the European.)

He had a good idea what his future looked like, considering his actual potential self sat at the same dining table right now.

"I think you're absolutely right," Tilda said, breaking up the awkward, loaded silence. "I saw some idiots painting a swastika on the wall in the back alley yesterday. All that nonsense about Aryan superiority can go -"

James gently squeezed her hand.

Tilda closed her mouth before she fully engaged in Rant Mode.

"Well. It can go where the sun don't shine. That's my honest option. Charles Lindbergh and his fellow racist, anti-Semitic pricks can follow suit."

Everyone was staring at her now. Great.

At least no one was making Bucky uncomfortable anymore.

"You seem to know a lot about this," Becca muttered.

Tilda grinned sharply. It probably looked low-key like a deranged mass murderer and less like a regular housewife.

"You have no idea."

Winifred was frowning. "What do you mean? Why are you so upset about this?"

Judging by her tone, she was genuinely curious.

Tilda was tempted to run a hand through her hair, but instead fastened her hold on James'.

"What they're doing is killing _thousands_ of people. With their isolationism born out of fear. There's no excuse for sending away people desperately fleeing for their lives. There is _never_ a good excuse for packing them back off to go right into the jaw of the monster trying to swallow them whole. Yes, this economy is sh- less than ideal. But surely there are ways of helping those refugees?"

George was nodding, along with James and Winifred.

Bucky looked thoughtful, but agreed.

"But why are they our problem?" Charlotte, the youngest of the bunch, asked. "Why can't they just stay home?"

Tilda took a deep breath. "Because the Nazis have taken their homes and their possessions and their families. They don't have anywhere else to go."

"How is that possible? Shouldn't there be some sort of outcry?"

Oh boy.

Tilda sent Winifred an apologetic look. She probably ruined dinner. Whoops.

"There should, and there is, but people don't want to listen. They don't want to share and they don't care if someone else gets hurt because of it. In fact, there are some people out there who are perfectly fine with hurting others. For no reason. They're bullies and they should not have the power they wield."

Charlotte bit her lip.

"Are you a German who fled here too?"

Tilda tried to bite down the tears welling up in her eyes.

"No. No I'm not."

In fact, her blood family was probably participating in the Hitler Youth and their girl equivalent at this moment.

And it drove tears to her eyes. Of anger. Of disappointment. Of frustration.

"But my parents were German. And I hate to see what that country has turned into," Tilda said quietly.

Bucky slung an arm over her shoulder, while James began to rub a thumb over the back of her hand.

Winifred changed the topic to dessert.

James held her tightly that night, watching over her sleep like a bodyguard sent by Morpheus. Not the creepy Edward Cullen way, but the 'I'll wake you when there's a nightmare' way.

Tilda appreciated both him and the gesture.

Regardless, her dreams were haunted by the black and white images of Holocaust survivors, of those who had not, of mountains of gold teeth, glasses, clothes, and shoes. Of names on a long list of people who had been deported, tormented, killed, and enslaved.

Pictures that had been branded into her mind when she was a child. When they began to teach her generation what the one of their grandparents and great-grandparents had done.

What they had looked away from, accepted. Tolerated in silence.

And listening to people glorify the Nazis and their cause was a slap to the face.

Anyone with some empathy and compassion should be horrified. Should listen to what the refugees were saying, before they were sent to their deaths.

Instead, America was more concerned with itself. Happy to stay ignorant, or pretend ignorance at least, mired in racism, open antisemitism, and xenophobia, all the while marching in the streets were Nazis.

Tilda wanted to puke.


End file.
